


Like Fireworks

by rosemaryandtime



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bullying, Fights, Gen, M/M, Platonic Sheith, angst & shit, keith's a teenager and he's good at it, pre-sheith, tags will be updated as the work progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2019-08-01 09:57:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16282451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosemaryandtime/pseuds/rosemaryandtime
Summary: The year leading up to theHekate'shistoric launch to the moons of Pluto isn't easy on any of them.Least of all Shiro.Least of all Keith.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _itssiccia said to rosemary-andtime:_   
>  _Yay we are so lucky you are open to receive prompts! Anyway, you are free to chose whatever or none: 1. Keith and Adam interacting post pilot error 2. Keith & Krolia bonding time (maybe Keith tells Krolia about Shiro for the first time?) **3\. Keith and Shiro during the months prior to the launch (:'D)**_
> 
> _Anonymous said to rosemary-andtime:_   
>  _Hi! First off I heckin love OOTD, by far my favourite fic. Secondly would you consider adding Adam into the ‘verse? Like maybe Shiro introducing Adam to Keith and it’s really awkward? Or Keith not liking him straight away? Or Shiro explaining his sexuality to Keith as a precursor? Anyway I love what ur doing with the grains of sand one shots and I can’t wait to see what u do next!_
> 
> I'm so bad at sticking to prompt requests, you guys.

“Commander!”

Iverson turns as Keith runs the last few steps to catch up to him. His expression immediately sours, and he gives Keith a weary look that is more than half a warning. “Better be important, cadet.”

Keith stops at the end of the aisle between mess tables, straightening his spine and snapping up his right hand in a salute. He does not like Iverson, and he's very aware that the feeling is mutual--but this is important, so he stands still and at attention and tries to look like a model student.

“I was wondering about the status of training mission K603 for the crew of the  _ Hekate,  _ sir,” he says, careful to keep his tone respectful. “They were supposed to land at 0900.”

Iverson lets out a short impatient breath and half turns away, as if to continue on his way. Keith bites his lip. 

“You know it's been ten years since the last crash on a routine training mission,” says Iverson.

“Eight years and four months, sir,” says Keith, too quickly. He wants to take the words back as soon as they've left his mouth. He shuts his eyes briefly and raises his chin.

Iverson regards him for a long moment, and Keith stares back, fighting to keep his face clear of the bristling defensive feeling making his shoulders tense under his uniform jacket. He feels  _ exposed, _ like he’s showing too much, in front of the last person in the world he wants to see him vulnerable, and it makes him want to fight.  _ Behave, _ he chants to himself.  _ Behave, behave, behave… _

To his very great surprise, Iverson is the one to look away first.

“You’re going to be a pain in the ass until I tell you what you want to know, aren’t you,” Iverson mutters, already looking down at his tablet.

Keith breathes again, half-giddy with relief. “Yes, sir,” he answers, and dares a tiny lopsided grin when Iverson gives him a look.

“You’re gonna want to watch that sass, Kogane,” Iverson says, and Keith remembers that he hasn’t yet got what he came for.

“Yes, sir,” he says meekly. “Sorry, sir.”

Iverson eyes him for another beat, then looks back down at his tablet. Keith has to stop himself from leaning forward hungrily to read over his elbow. “K603,” Iverson says. “Six weeks in orbital space… mission objective… Alright, here. They landed safely about an hour and a half later than scheduled, they proceeded directly to medical, they have yet to be dismissed.  _ Which is normal,” _ he adds before Keith can give voice to the urgent lurch of worry. “Satisfied?”

Keith isn’t, not quite. He wants to ask to be dismissed from lunch: there’s still fifteen minutes left, that’s more than enough time to dart down to medical--but he eyes Iverson cautiously and knows he’s pushed the man to his limit. “Yes, sir,” he answers. “Thank you.”

Iverson’s face doesn’t exactly soften--Iverson doesn’t  _ do _ soft--but some of the irritation leaves it. “Get back to your lunch, cadet,” he says. “You’ll see Shirogane by the end of the day, I’m sure.”

Keith salutes again to cover the way his face is heating, and he waits for Iverson to dismiss him before he turns back toward his table. He can feel eyes on him: the group of six or so cadets at the end of the table nearest him are all either looking away hastily or covering snickers, or both. Only one is laughing openly. Keith meets his eyes without really meaning to and finds something sharp and bright and indifferently cruel as a knife’s edge looking back at him.

He averts his eyes quickly, stuffs his fists into the pockets of his uniform, and hurries back to his seat. 

He checks his tablet again when he sits down. He messaged Shiro this morning first thing so it would be waiting for him when he got back, but it still hasn’t been opened. It makes sense, if they’re an hour and a half behind schedule. Shiro’s tablet probably hasn’t even been reconnected to the local network yet. Keith turns off his tablet and tries to focus on his lunch, tries not to look up every time somebody comes through the mess hall doors.

The 1:00 bell rings, releasing them, and Keith follows the general stream of cadets out the door and down the hall. His next class doesn’t start for nearly twenty minutes, so he turns toward the hallway that will take him to the medical wing, just in case,  _ just in case _ they’ve let the Kerberos crew out in the last fifteen minutes. 

“Kogane! Hey, Kogane!”

Keith doesn’t want to respond, he wants to pretend not to have heard and press on toward his goal--but somebody grabs him by the elbow, and that’s more than even he can ignore. He shakes off the offending hand and whirls, ready.

He’s met by wide eyes and upraised palms. “Whoa,” says the cadet, the sharp-eyed boy who was laughing at him, laughing again. “Damn, calm down.”

Keith takes a step back, assessing, uncertain. “What?” he demands.

“You’re touchy, anybody ever tell you that?” says the boy. “I just had a question. You hang out with Shirogane, right?”

There’s a sort of halt in the movement of students around them, a break in the flow. Keith’s eyes dart over the few stationary cadets loitering around them: the boy’s friends, from his table. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “Why?”

“Off-base, right?” asks the boy. “At his house?”

Keith’s instincts are prickling, but he can’t put his finger on  _ why. _ The boy’s face is open and friendly. Innocent.

“It’s not a house,” Keith says finally, his eyes on a girl slightly behind the sharp-eyed boy who can’t seem to stop giggling. “It’s an apartment. The rest of the Kerberos crew stays there too when they’re not at home in the city.”

“Right, right,” says the boy, frowning and nodding. “So like… does it have carpet?”

_ What? _

“What?” Keith asks aloud.

“You know.” The boy makes an illustrative gesture, flat-palmed and horizontal. “Carpet? On the floor?”

“Uh,” says Keith. There’s more laughter now, half-smothered snickers, a cadet turning hastily away. His heart’s pounding, and he doesn’t understand. “...Why?”

The boy shrugs. His eyes are dancing now, that cruel glitter. “Carpet, you know. It’s better. For your knees.”

Keith stares at him, bewildered. The cadets around them aren’t even trying to hide their laughter now, and he eases back a little, looking between them for some clue. He gets it, a second later, in the form of pantomime: another cadet puckers his lips into an O, poking his tongue into his cheek, drawing something invisible to his open mouth.

Keith stands very still. 

“Oohhhh,” he hears somebody say, loud and gleeful, “ohhhh shit,” and that’s all he hears, because his ears are actually roaring, an ocean of rushing blood and white noise, and he’s taking two steps forward--

Everything’s chaos and noise and hands and struggle, blunt impacts and sharp pain, grunts and hot breath and  _ chanting, _ the cadets around them chanting, egging them on, there’s more than there were, faces laughing, so many faces--

\--and then Keith’s being yanked back by a businesslike grip on the back of his jacket, scruffed out of the scrap like a misbehaving puppy. He shouts in outrage and fights it, distantly registering the look of surprise on the other cadet’s face as he receives the same treatment. 

“Show’s over!” says the person holding him, loud and authoritative--and Keith instantly goes still, his stomach sinking in the worst way. “You’ve all got places to be. Move it, or I start picking people to write up!”

The hallway clears. The grip on Keith’s jacket shifts, a hand settling on his shoulder in its place, warm and broad and familiar, but tight now and heavy to let him know he’s in disgrace.

“Who started it?” Shiro asks.

“He did, sir,” the other cadet says instantly. His lip’s split, Keith notes with bitter satisfaction, but he’s wide-eyed now with injured innocence and it only adds to the look. “He just-- came at me, I don’t even know.”

“Keith?” asks Shiro.

Keith stares across at the other boy and thinks about it for about two seconds, breathing heavily. The cadet looks back at him, challenge and satisfaction both in the slight curve of his lips.

_ Got you. _

“I started it,” says Keith abruptly, and looks away. There’s a thick warm trickle that tastes of iron and salt dripping into his mouth, and he swipes it away with the back of his hand.

There’s a pause. Then Shiro’s hand on his shoulder is tugging to get him to turn around--but Keith can’t look at him right now, he  _ can’t, _ not with the other cadet watching. He plants his feet and refuses to budge.

“I said I started it,” he says, louder.

Nothing happens for a moment. The pressure on his shoulder eases.

“Okay,” says Shiro behind him. He sounds resigned: Keith hears him draw a deep breath and let it go. “Okay. What’s your name, cadet?”

“Cadet Justin Phelps, sir,” says the cadet, and though he’s prevented from saluting by the other officer’s hands tight on his upper arms, he somehow gives the impression of it nonetheless. “It’s an honor to meet you, Captain Shirogane.”

Keith seethes.

“Uh-huh,” says Shiro. “Who’s your officer-in-charge?”

“Lieutenant Coate, sir.”

“Go clean up, cadet,” Shiro orders. “Report to class. I’ll be by to talk with you later.”

The other officer releases Phelps, and Keith feels his lip curling as the boy  _ does _ salute, straight-backed and starry-eyed like there’s nothing he’s looking forward to more. “Yes, sir,” Phelps says reverently. “Thank you, sir.”

“Get moving,” warns Shiro, and Phelps turns away obediently toward the nearest bathroom--but he gives Keith a sidelong look in passing, a subtle smirk, a look of calm, knowing triumph.

Keith’s knuckles are smarting and bleeding from their contact with Phelps’ teeth. He’s itching to repeat the blow.

“Keith,” says Shiro once Phelps is out of earshot. He’s circling around, grabbing Keith’s other shoulder so he can’t turn away. “Bud. Fighting? Really?”

Keith takes a deep breath. He’s shaking, now that the fight is over and the adrenaline is draining. “I’m sorry,” he says, and another wave of fury comes welling up, because this isn’t how this is supposed to go. He hasn’t seen Shiro for almost two months and he  _ hates _ Phelps for ruining this for him.

“What happened?” Shiro asks. His hands on Keith’s shoulders tighten--not to hurt, but to draw his attention. “Keith. Look me in the eye and tell me you just flew at him for no reason.”

The other officer is still there, standing quiet and unassuming behind Shiro. Keith cuts him an irritated glance, wishing he’d move on. The scuffle is over; there’s no reason for him to still be here. Keith’s not telling Shiro what Phelps said, but he’s sure as  _ hell  _ not telling Shiro what Phelps said in front of somebody else.

He shrugs. 

Shiro blows out a breath, hangs his head down for a moment, and Keith’s heart twists painfully to see how tired he is. “Come on, man,” Shiro pleads quietly. “Tell me what happened, don’t make me give you a write-up on my first day back.”

Keith can’t look at him. He focuses his eyes on a neutral point on the ground to Shiro’s right, and he closes his mouth.

“Okay,” Shiro murmurs finally. “Keith, I have to write you up. I have to, I’m sorry.”

Shiro’s never written him up before, not once in almost three years. 

“Fine,” says Keith.

“Can we talk about this over the weekend?” Shiro asks.

“I’d really rather not.”

Shiro goes still for a moment, then nods once and releases Keith with one hand, shifting backward to face the other officer. “This is…” he says, and trails off with a weary huff of breath.  _ “Really _ not how I planned to introduce you two. Keith, this is Lieutenant Webb, he’s my flight partner for mission training. Adam, this is Keith.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're here by way of [Out of the Desert](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12851769/chapters/29348388), yes, this is in the same universe and will probably occasionally reference events and dynamics established there. I'm not marking it as a sequel, though, because...
> 
> If you're _not_ here by way of Out of the Desert: that's fine! There's not very much in that work that deviates from canon that you'll need to know to follow this. The major difference is that in this universe Keith and Shiro met a couple years earlier, when Keith was 12 and Shiro was 19, and Shiro has been mentoring him for the past couple of years.
> 
> [Jane the Virgin narrator voice]: and now you are caught up.
> 
> Thanks to [thecryoftheseagulls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecryoftheseagulls/pseuds/thecryoftheseagulls) for their help with the name of the Kerberos crew's ship, even though it has been LITERAL MONTHS and they've probably forgotten.
> 
> (I have no idea where this is going! I have no idea what it's going to look like on the way there! This might be a Story with a Plot or it might be a bunch of one-shots WE JUST DON'T KNOW.)
> 
> (...wanna find out with me?)


	2. Chapter 2

Two hours later, Keith's sitting in the cold-lit hallway outside Iverson’s office, separated from Phelps by two empty chairs and a staff sergeant. Phelps isn’t bothered at all by their circumstances, it seems. He’s downright  _ chatty,  _ dragging small-talk out of the staff sergeant, who would rather be somewhere else. 

“What track were you?” Phelps asks, all bright-eyed interest. “Space?”

“Atmospheric pilot,” the sergeant answers. He’s paying more attention to his tablet than Phelps. “Less competitive. More real career opportunities, after.”

Keith catches a quick disdainful twist of Phelp’s face in his reflection in the dark office window across from their chairs, but none of it comes out in his voice. “Oh, yeah,” he says instead, nodding with the same thoughtful frown as earlier. “Makes sense. What year did you graduate, seventy...five? Six?”

“Seventy-five.”

“Do you know Brett Poulter? First lieutenant, space track?”

“Name’s familiar.”

“He’s my cousin,” says Phelps, brimmingly proud. “Got slotted for a Mars mission less than two years after he graduated.”

“Cool.”

That’s not that impressive, Keith thinks contemptuously.  _ Shiro _ got assigned to the Kerberos mission less than six months after he graduated  _ early _ . And Mars is old news. Mars is a consolation prize. Mars is  _ at least you get to launch. _

Kerberos is new ground.

Enceladus, he thinks very quietly, that’s new ground too. Nobody’s been there yet. The first manned exploratory mission doesn’t launch for four years. The crew isn't assigned yet.

He pushes the thought out of his head. The clock on the wall is the old-fashioned type, but it seems more decorative than functional: there's no numbers, and there's no hand for the minutes or the seconds. The hour hand has barely moved since they arrived. Keith stares up at it resentfully and stretches his legs out in front of him, doing his best to ignore Phelps. 

Maybe ten minutes have passed when there's a sound from Iverson's office: a  _ click _ of the latching mechanism, like somebody's standing on the other side with their hand on the doorknob. Phelps straightens instantly, sitting straight and attentive, his eyes on the door. Keith rolls his eyes and looks away, slouching deliberately down in his chair. 

It catches him off guard when Shiro steps out from the office. 

“You're relieved,” Shiro tells the staff sergeant while Keith and Phelps are both scrambling to their feet. “I got it from here.”

“Yes, sir,” says the sergeant. He  _ sounds _ relieved.

Shiro gestures at Phelps, and then to the office door. “You're up, cadet.”

Phelps snaps a salute with such glowing obsequiousness that Keith wants to gag. “Yes, sir,” the boy says, not even a hint of guilt. “Thank you, sir.”

Shiro gives him a hard-eyed, expectant sort of smile, lips pressed tight, and Keith feels a little smug coil of satisfaction as Phelps’ starry-eyed expression flickers with uncertainty. There's a brief pause, and then Phelps turns crisply to walk into Iverson's office.

And then the hallway is silent, just the staff sergeant’s retreating footsteps and the  _ beep-snick  _ of Iverson's door closing breaking through the hum of the lights overhead. 

“Kiss-ass,” Keith mutters, and drops back into his seat.

Shiro snorts and sits heavily in the chair next to Keith, then leans back against the wall and sighs long. Keith doesn’t look. He crosses his arms over his ribs, feeling his slouch deepen, feeling sick. 

“Pulled the footage,” Shiro says eventually.

Keith stiffens.

“No audio,” adds Shiro, and Keith can breathe again. “But, ah… we got the gist, I think.”

His tone is even, just relaying information, but Keith can feel the shame trying to crawl up his throat, a hot choking lump of anger. He swallows hard and turns his face to inspect the carpet.

“You want to fill in any gaps, maybe?”

“Not so much,” says Keith.

Shiro nods, a little absent, and looks away. The hallway is quiet for a moment. “The price of… being good at what you do,” he finally begins, choosing his words slowly, “is… some people are gonna do everything they can think of to hold you back, get under your skin, keep you from… being your best. You with me?”

Keith shrugs.

“They might try to…” Shiro pauses for a long moment. “They might try to... discredit what you did to get where you are now. Try to imply that you... took shortcuts.”

Keith stares at his knees, his face burning, an odd ringing filling his ears.

“Bud,” says Shiro, and sits forward to catch Keith's eye. “You're very, very good at what you do. This isn't the last time you're gonna have to deal with jealous idiots. You gotta let this stuff roll off. You  _ gotta  _ learn to walk away.”

Shiro wasn't  _ there, _ Shiro didn't hear what they said or how they laughed. Shiro doesn't know what they said about _ him. _ There's fury smoldering sullen in Keith's chest, like a log burning from the inside; he's a single knife's-edge inch from crumbling apart, bursting out into white-hot flames and sparks.

But he looks at Shiro, almost by accident--Shiro who's got bags under his bloodshot eyes, Shiro who's probably space-lagged as hell but is using his R&R time to try to get Keith out of trouble instead of to rest--and the fire banks.

“Whatever,” Keith mumbles, as much of a concession as he’s willing to make right now, and stares down at his folded arms.

There’s a pause, then Shiro’s hand claps down gently on his shoulder and falls away. 

“Gonna be some consequences,” Shiro says. “Not sure what Iverson’s gonna go for. Probably along the lines of chores and an apology letter.”

Keith unfolds his arms. “I’m  _ not _ apologizing.”

“Easy,” says Shiro mildly. “If he requires one from you, Cadet Phelps will be writing one too. We’ll work on it over the weekend if we need to. Deal?”

Sacrificing the first weekend with Shiro since his launch to dealing with this  _ bullshit _ is not Keith’s idea of a consolation. 

“Deal?” Shiro presses. 

Keith scuffs at a stain in the carpet with the toe of his shoe and lets out an unwilling breath. “Yeah, fine.”

“Cool,” Shiro says, brisk now. “Get over here.”

And before Keith has even registered what’s happening, Shiro’s dragged him into a rough, tight hug. He struggles briefly by reflex, because Shiro means business and Keith is getting thoroughly, lovingly  _ squashed.  _ “Fuck,” he wheezes. “Shiro!”

“Language, cadet!” Shiro says, deeply scandalized, and he crooks a finger mercilessly into Keith’s armpit until Keith is thrashing in his hold and gasping with silent, helpless laughter. And then all at once it’s a hug again, softer now and encompassing and warm, still the safest place Keith knows.

He stills for a moment, closes his eyes, catches his breath, feels his heart slow and calm as he soaks it in. “Missed you, bud,” Shiro says quietly, and Keith doesn’t trust his own voice to answer, but he frees his own arms to wrap them around Shiro’s ribs and hold onto him tightly in return, because holy shit,  _ two months. _

He still slugs Shiro in the bicep for revenge as he draws away, though.

“Gravity’s weird,” Shiro remarks once he’s done groaning and whining about  _ after everything he’s done. _ He rubs his hands over his face. “I swear. You get used to weightlessness and then land and it feels like all of your energy is getting sucked out of your body through your feet.” He pauses. “Also I just tried to float my tablet to Iverson and dropped it on the floor instead, because, Earth.”

“Does Iverson’s office have a camera?” asks Keith interestedly, and Shiro shoves the side of his head.

“Okay, listen,” says Shiro while Keith snickers. “I have to go check in with medical again.” He flicks his eyes to Iverson’s door. “You okay taking this on without me?”

Keith feels his face heat. “I'm fine.”

“Okay,” Shiro agrees. “Keep your cool. Be respectful. You’re sorry for escalating the confrontation to physical violence, okay? That’s your line.”

“I’m sorry for escalating it with officers in the hallway,” mutters Keith.

_ “Keith.” _

“He fucking deserved it, I don’t know what you want me to say--”

“I want,” Shiro interrupts him, raising his voice a little to talk over Keith, “I want you to say what Iverson wants to hear. Got it?”

Keith stares at him for a moment. Then he realizes the set of his face is resentful and challenging and going to get him in trouble, and he lowers his head hastily.

“No, look at me,” says Shiro. It’s his officer voice and Keith quails a little despite himself. “Keith. Look at me.”

Keith swallows, carefully shifts his face to a neutral expression, and complies.

“Listen,” says Shiro, gentler. “I believe you. I saw the footage.  _ Iverson _ saw the footage. He knows it was provoked. You don't need to try to convince him of that. You don't need to try to defend yourself. You need to accept where  _ you _ messed up and convince Commander Iverson that you’re going to learn to walk away. Because you're going to learn to walk away.”

It makes sense, what Shiro's saying. Keith doesn't like it, but it makes sense. He releases a breath and he tries to put the satisfying mental image of his fist crashing against Phelps’ face out of his mind for the moment, and he shrugs.

Shiro reaches over and grips the back of his neck, a steady warm point of contact. “Okay,” he says. “I have to go. Call me if you need me. High-priority number, though, I'm gonna silence the other one and try to get some sleep after they're done with me.”

“I got along fine without you for six weeks,” Keith feels the need to point out.

“Brat,” says Shiro without heat. He inhales deeply and releases Keith, getting stiffly to his feet. “Okay. Good luck. I love you. I'll come find you in the morning if I don't hear from you.”

“Okay,” answers Keith. He watches Shiro turn down the hallway, walking a little slow and awkward like it’s something he needs to remember how to do. He bites his lip, and when Shiro’s reached the corner that will take him out of the administrative wing and down the long walk to medical, Keith finds himself on his feet, taking two quick steps after him. “Shiro!”

Shiro turns.

Keith shifts his weight. “Welcome back.”

There’s a beat, and then Shiro’s grinning. It’s a tired thing that somehow makes the shadows under his eyes deeper, but at the same time it brightens his entire face. “It’s good to be back,” he calls back, and lifts his hand in a wave.

He turns the corner and is gone.

Keith sinks back down in his seat, leaning forward to brace his folded arms on his knees, and watches the useless clock.

When Iverson’s door beeps and clicks, ten minutes later, he breathes in deeply and stands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new chapter who dis


End file.
